


cemetry gates

by incrediblysincere



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Drinking, F/F, Fake Character Death, Old Lovers, Reunions, i think, moira and ana quote poetry at each other and are old gays, moira is more monstrous and fucked u, monstrous!moira, vague sequel to all jacked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25442233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incrediblysincere/pseuds/incrediblysincere
Summary: a dreaded sunny day, so let's go where we're wantedand i meet you at the cemetry gateskeats and yeats are on your side, but you losecause weird lover wilde is on minewhile hiding in cairo, moira gets an invitation to meet the masked fugitive, the shrike, at the temple of anubis. how could she refuse?
Relationships: Ana Amari/Moira O'Deorain
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	cemetry gates

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sort-of sequel to all jacked up https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447976 . i was going to post it a long time ago but never really considered it finished, but i decided it needed to be posted anyway. i love anamoira angst and need more of them being old bitter lesbians

Why this mysterious Shrike wanted to meet with Moira was anybody’s guess. Moira was simply vacationing in Cairo (and perhaps slipping under the radar whilst those pesky rumors of who was funding her died down) when the infamous vigilante contacted her.

A partnership with a known criminal wasn’t something Moira wanted right now, although she could easily keep it under wraps. If the Shrike tried to blackmail her, she could threaten to reveal their location. Although it was still a risky plan, Moira could never say no to mysterious offers. The invitation had left her practically drooling; details were left unclear yet so tantalizingly interesting.

_ Dr. O’Deorain --  _

_ I suppose you have heard as much of me as I have of you. While I don’t expect you to believe that I don’t mean you harm, I assure you I am as much in hiding as you are. _

_ I would very much like to meet you. I might suggest a selection of locations that are both secure and secluded. I can promise that nobody would be able to find you. _

_ I believe we can achieve great things together. But first I need to meet you so as to secure your utmost trust. _

_ You may find my true identity surprising. _

_ \- Shrike _

The last line was what reeled Moira in. Of course it could be a trap, and most likely  _ was,  _ but by this point, Moira herself was difficult to take down. While her experimenting had left her doubled over with pain some days, other days she felt so much more  _ alive.  _ Her right arm was ugly, purple and clawed, twisted over like an ancient tree. And that purple ran up her arm, creeping along her neck to where the glass tube penetrated her face, eye replaced with a gaping hole to supply her with that precious life force.

She was a force to be reckoned with. Ugly and twisted maybe, but nobody could stop her. Nobody could manipulate genes like she did.

So Moira wrote back, pinging the short reply to the secure address the Shrike had provided in their original message. It was bold and simple - she let the Shrike know not to fuck with her, because she had an army at her back that could bring her down. She didn’t actually  _ mention  _ Talon, although it was tempting - she’d rather leave the details of her backers unmentioned for now.

Within hours she received the reply, encrypted and secure.

_ Meet me at the Necropolis. I have encoded the coordinates within this message (they will be deleted automatically within an hour). Do not bring anybody else or you will face the consequences. _

No sign-off. Just this short, terse note, and as Moira downloaded the location it was the first time she thought about what kind of person she might be dealing with.

Clearly it was somebody like herself, and that pleased her. A worthy match, if they were to fight. Or witty enough that they could make decent conversation. Familiar things like this always piqued Moira’s interest. Whoever the Shrike was, Moira felt as if she knew them already.

  
  


It wasn’t long by hoverbike to the Temple of Anubis. Heavily guarded as usual, but Moira wasn’t interested in entering the temple. The Shrike had detailed a secret entrance on the outside of the Temple, and as Moira parked her bike outside, she shivered. Death didn’t normally scare her - hell she  _ lived  _ in it, her hands were practically always caked in death and decay, not to mention what she was doing with  _ Gabe -  _ but the knowledge of the dead buried within these structures, these pyramids, gave her a little pause. Why would the Shrike ask her to meet  _ here  _ of all places? Were they planning on adding her body to the countless already buried deep within the ancient tombs?

Moira shrugged off the fear with her jacket. It was evening, but still way too warm to wear leather in fucking  _ Cairo.  _ She flexed her right hand a little. Muscles still strong, claws still sharp. Still ready for whatever the Shrike would throw at her.

She walks into the secret entrance, through a couple of dim tombs and out into the open air again. She’s in the middle of a courtyard, broken up by a set of stairs leading below into the lower levels of the tombs, a few palm trees, and nothing else.

“Hello?” she calls experimentally. The word bounces around the temple. “Shrike?”

Without warning, a bullet whistles past her ear and hits the ground behind her. Moira’s unharmed and she rubs her ear. “Jesus Mary and Joseph! If you’re gonna be a cunt about it then why am I here at all?”

She turns, ready to attack, and sees the Shrike standing behind her. She’s never seen this person before except on broadcasts and  _ wanted  _ posters. They’re wearing that full face mask and a tattered cloak. They have a proud, upright posture and hold a rifle deadly straight. Everything about them seems dangerously familiar.

“Hello, Dr. O’Deorain,” says the Shrike in a voice that knocks the wind out of Moira.

“Amari?”

The Shrike strides closer, pulling the mask off their face with a simple motion. This, Moira never prepared for. It’s fitting that they stand in the middle of the Necropolis, because for Moira, this is seeing the dead resurrected.

“You were  _ dead,”  _ Moira says, a hoarse whisper that she meant to be a scream, “You died! I know you did!”

“Oh come on, O’Deorain,” Ana says calmly. “You know how hard us old soldiers are to kill.”

Moira feels like sitting down. All the wind has gone from her lungs and she feels that if Ana were to attack now, she wouldn’t be able to fight back. “Amelie killed you. She shot your eye out. Blasted you right through the skull.”

“And she did.”

“Ana--  _ Amari _ ,” Moira says, stepping closer on shaking legs, “I believed for so long you were dead. How could you?”

“How could you turn to Talon?” It’s a simple deflection, but not one Moira expected.

“Answer the fucking question.”

Ana sighs, and for the first time her age shows through her defiant facade. She presses a gloved hand to her brow and massages it. “I saw fit to lay low for a few years. Fake dead. Didn’t want to affiliate with Overwatch anymore.”

“You could have at least told me.” Moira is close to Ana now, and god if she hasn’t changed. Her hair seems grayer than it was, almost white, tied in a taut braid that frames her face. One eye is covered by a patch. The eye that Amelie blasted out. Her cybernetic eye. She’s still as graceful as ever, seeming never to exude effort in her movements.

“What part of faking dead do you not understand, Moira?” 

Ana looks Moira up and down, taking it all in. Moira suddenly feels uncharacteristically ashamed, naked. Her body feels practically new and it’s been a long time since Ana last saw it. “You’ve made some changes,” she notes.

Moira brings her hand before her eyes as if it’s new to herself as well. “Ah, yes. I’ve been experimenting on myself.”

“Better yourself than others,” Ana shoots back dryly. Moira’s guilt about Gabe bubbles in her stomach.

“Well you cannot believe what this baby can do,” Moira says, flexing her hand in an attempt to regain her confidence. “You missed me, by the way.”

“What?”

“When you shot at me,” Moira says. “Before. You missed.”

“If I meant to hit you,” Ana says, voice warm but stony in the way only she can pull off, “I would have hit.”

“Ah.” Moira believes her. “So. Why reveal yourself to me now?”

Ana’s confidence seems a little shook and she takes a knee on the hard sandstone, her gun resting up against her shoulder. Moira follows suit, sitting awkwardly across from Ana.

“I heard you were in Cairo,” Ana says. “Heard you got yourself in trouble when the public found out who was funding you. I wouldn’t have revealed myself if you didn’t come here.” She sighs. “I missed you, Moira.”

“You--”

“You fucking idiot, O’Deorain. Why did you have to come to Cairo?”

Moira feels the unshakeable urge to  _ hug  _ her, for all the good that would do. She shuffles closer, scraping her knees on the sandstone, and puts her right hand on her shoulder. Ana moves to push it away, then stops. Her hand rests on the monstrous one, and for the first time in -  _ god,  _ how many years has it been? - they have contact.

“Oh Moira,” Ana says gently, taking her hand and pulling it onto her lap. “What have you done to yourself?”

Moira can’t speak.

“Everyone I’ve ever considered myself close to,” Ana continues, “has died. Jack, Gabe. Everyone but my daughter. She’s the only thing I have left, Moira.”

Moira looks. There’s a tear in her eye, shining against the dark brown iris. She aches. “Ana… I’m not going to die. If anything, I’m getting stronger.”

“What kind of life is  _ this?”  _ Ana gestures at her hand, her face. “Moira, you’re…”

“A monster. I know. It’s not so bad. Ana, look at me.”

Ana turns. Her sweet lined face is caked with so many memories, so much history, and Moira can’t help herself. It’s instinctual to lean down and kiss her. Ana puts a warm hand on her cheek. “Moira. We cannot do this.”

“It’s just a kiss,” Moira protests. The hand is so familiar it almost makes her weep.

“It will be more.”

That’s such a simple statement that it gets Moira going. She wants Ana to go on. To list the possibilities. To tell her what she wants. 

“Why tell me who you are? Why even meet me here if you don’t want…?” Moira lets the question linger. 

Ana moves her hand to Moira’s neck and it’s all she can do to not shudder at the touch. “I’ve been so lonely.”

“Come on,” says Moira, because  _ dammit  _ someone has to take charge around here. “Lets go to my apartment.”

“I can’t be seen,” Ana protests. “I have a room here. We can stay here.”

“A room…?”

Ana stands up. “A base of operations of kinds. Here. Follow me.”

Now she’s in charge and Moira’s curiosity is burning about how she’s made a place here, among the dead. But she follows, into one of the tomb’s chambers. There is a bed here, as well as several screens, a duffel bag, boxes, and a few essentials. Ana rests her gun against the wall. “It’s not much. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll do.”

“Oh, wait.” Ana pulls a bottle out of a box and two small glasses. “For old times, eh?”

“Whiskey?”

Ana pours the honey-yellow liquid into the glasses. “Only the finest.”

It’s not Irish whiskey, it’s American, but that’s good enough for Moira. The smell and sight alone is so familiar she could cry, and when she takes the first sip it’s like diving headfirst into a sea of memories.

The liquor is strong and warming, like Ana herself. Moira looks around the sparse room. There’s no decoration save for a picture of Ana and Fareeha, taken when both of them were much younger. It’s peeling away from the wall. 

Moira turns to see Ana looking at her. The whiskey is making her bold and in an attempt to shake off vulnerability she says “This whiskey. It’s American.”

“I apologise,” says Ana, and Moira can already hear the wit crawling into her voice. “You have to remember, Ireland is not the centre of the world.”

“It is to me,” Moira says brashly. 

“I thought  _ I  _ was.”

Moira’s heart jumps a little. “Bold.”

Ana looks down, her hands folded around the crystalline glass in her lap. “Without you, in this beggarly poor hut, I have endured such desolation - ah, don’t ask!”

Moira smiles. She recognises the poem. This is the game they used to play, way back when. “Hafez. I can do that Cemetry Gates shite too, you know.”

“Hmm?” Ana moves closer, the bed creaking. A smile plays at the corner of her lip.

Moira begins, reciting as though reading from a book . “Is it thy will - Love that I love so well - ”

“Wilde,” Ana interrupts. “So predictable.”

Moira wants to kiss her again, to take that smugness right out of her mouth. 

“Come back to mine,” she tries again. “You won’t be seen. You can have my helmet, and my jacket.”

“Moira…” 

Ana’s sentence trails out into a sigh and she sets down her glass. Moira waits, and when she doesn’t move, presses on. 

“Please.” She leans forward and lets Ana’s face fall towards hers. It’s a light kiss, sharp with the taste of whiskey. Moira feels Ana pressing to go further, teasing her tongue at the corner of her mouth.

“Hafez would have a lot to say about this,” Ana concludes, hands still cupping Moira’s face. 

“So come with me.” Moira takes Ana’s hand and cups it in her monstrous one, slotting her fingers into the gaps between Ana’s. 

Ana sighs. She runs a finger along the sharp worry line that creases Moira’s forehead, then to the dark bubbling tube running through her eye. 

“Does it hurt?”

Moira shakes her head. “Not anymore. Come home with me darling.”

Ana freezes. Her hand drops from Moira’s face. “You really want this, eh?” Her voice is firmer now. 

Moira doesn’t want to beg, but she  _ is,  _ even without words. Her body begs as it moves closer to Ana’s, fingers itching to touch every single part of her. She knows Ana is going to say no again, and it hurts.

Ana stands up quickly, and Moira nearly falls over. She can’t predict what’s going to happen, and when Ana begins unbuttoning her cloak, she takes in a sharp breath.

The dry Cairo air feels heavier now and as Ana pulls her robe away, Moira leans forward, body crushed under its own weight. Below the robe, Ana is wearing a simple tank top, her arms and throat exposed. Browned by sun, they are criss-crossed with scars and dotted with freckles. They’re muscular, built that way from years of holding up a rifle.

Ana grabs a scarf and slings it over her head, makes a mask over her face. She tucks her braid under it neatly; now only her honey-brown eye shows. 

“Let’s go.”

Moira is startled by the abruptness of her change of mind but doesn’t let it stop her, standing and holding out an arm for Ana. Ana takes it, smiling as she accepts the out-of-place chivalry.

They walk back out, out through the city of the dead. The moon is out, making the tombs shine white, casting soft shadows across the courtyard. 

Moira’s bike is still parked at the secret entrance and she helps Ana up onto the back, zipping her jacket. Ana’s arms wrap around her waist, steady and strong. She buckles on her helmet and starts the engine, feeling Ana’s grip tighten as she pulls onto the road. 

Wiping the dust from her visor, she is happy for this quiet moment. The feeling in her gut has yet to settle and she doesn’t know how to talk to Ana, not now that she’s alive. 

With the moon reflected in her eyes and the Shrike on her back, she drives towards the city, feeling disquieted. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
